Childe Harold's Tale
by eldritcher
Summary: Years after the War, Harry is curious about bluebells. Draco is balding. A portrait is mostly unhelpful.


This forms a second part of a loose triad of stories. The first is "Lost Gods and Godlike Men". This is the second. The third is "How do you like your blue-eyed boys?"

* * *

"You came all the way to Mexico to hear about Professor Snape?" Draco asked.

"Yes, Malfoy," Harry said quietly.

It had taken him months to trace Draco to Mexico, where the latter served as an Apparation Examiner at the Mexican Ministry of Magic. Harry had been surprised by Draco's choice of profession. The Malfoys had been pardoned after the war and Harry had assumed Draco would try and rebuild his family reputation. Draco had chosen to leave the country as soon as the trials were over, not providing any of his former acquaintances a contact address. It had taken all of Harry's clout to track down his former nemesis.

"You aren't foolish enough to believe that he held an undying torch for your mother until the end," Draco said flatly. "So I am curious as to what aspect of Professor Snape interests you now."

Harry nodded. When he had been eighteen, and madly infatuated with Ginny Weasley, he had truly believed Snape's memories. Now he was twenty-seven, unmarried yet; he was no longer as naive as to believe that a man spurned in love would yield everything he had to save that woman's child with another. Harry revered the memory of his mother, but he was pragmatic enough to realise that even someone as brilliant and beautiful as Lily did not warrant a love so sacrificing.

"I wish to know, Malfoy," Harry said simply.

He needed closure. He needed to know why Snape had virtually offered himself on a sacrificial platter to Voldemort.

Taking a deep breath, he continued, "I need to know why he went back to spy the second time around. As you said, it cannot be that he held an undying torch for my mother."

"He saved us. He is dead. I think you should leave the dead in peace, Potter," Draco said softly.

Harry took a closer look at his former classmate. Draco had gained weight and no longer resembled a thin ferret. Draco's cheeks were plumper and Harry could see traces of Andromeda in the last Malfoy.

"I only wish-"

"There must be a portrait at Hogwarts."

"Yes, well, he refuses to talk to me," Harry mumbled. The portrait had told him firmly that he ought to get on with his life and stop worrying over the dead.

Draco's smirk was a pale parody of what once it had been. "What of Dumbledore's portrait?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but Dumbledore isn't the one to go to for answers," Harry said testily.

He did not add that Minerva had cloistered Dumbledore's portrait behind velvet drapes as soon as she had assumed charge. Any mention of the late Headmaster's name was met with her icy glares. She had not forgiven Dumbledore for the deception on Astronomy Tower. Harry often wondered what he might have done if he had lost more than a mentor and a friend that night, as she had.

Draco sighed and nodded abruptly. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I don't know what Professor Snape was doing during those months. I was too frightened for myself to notice much else. However, you will find all the answers you need, and some you may not care for, if you should choose to visit the Manor."

"The Manor?" Harry asked in surprise. "It was abandoned after the war, wasn't it? The Prophet once reported that the family was in residence at Rheims."

"My mother lives in Rheims," Draco said quietly. "My father is still in the Manor."

"Oh."

"Yes, Potter."

Draco ran his fingers through his hair, which was receding and thinning rapidly, a far cry from his Hogwarts days. Harry was ridiculously grateful for his thick, unruly hair inherited from James.

"My father is in the Manor. I am not sure how things fare. He does not reply to letters. I admit that I cannot stand the thought of returning to that place." Draco made a frustrated noise and continued, "He refused to join my mother at Rheims, preferring to stay behind. I told him that he was welcome to come with me. He declined. So he is still there."

"Is he-" Harry paused, wondering how to put the question tactfully.

"Sane?" Draco snorted. "I feared that he might not be well at all when he refused to accompany my mother to the Continent. He looked remarkably robust when I saw him last for Rabastan Lestrange's funeral. He was unusually garrulous too. He is sane enough, I suppose."

"Does he receive visitors?"

"The occasional Unspeakable," Draco said. "They run experiments on the Manor. It is a hotbed of stagnant magic, or so they say. I wanted to burn the place down." He shook his head and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"I set fire to Grimmauld Place right after the war," Harry offered.

He knew well what it was to have memories and magic lingering long after the dead had become bones and dust. Grimmauld place, with its memories of Sirius and Dumbledore and Tonks and Remus had been too suffocating. He certainly could sympathise with Malfoy's frustration. The Manor had been Voldemort's residence during the last months of the war, after all.

"Good for you, Potter! I will have to wait. Father loves that place."

Draco was waiting for his father's death so that he could finally burn down that last relic of their family's shame. Harry did not know what to say. So he nodded, made small talk, and took his leave.

* * *

Harry was in two minds. He had no wish to enter Malfoy Manor again. Nor did he wish to see Lucius Malfoy in the flesh. But he wanted, craved, needed to understand Snape.

"You are still chasing after that nonsense!"  
Coming to the Burrow had been a mistake. Not only had he to hear Ginny's remonstrations as she tried to make him understand that his obsession with the past was unhealthy, he also had to put up with the quiet, disappointed looks of the other Weasleys. They meant well. Ginny had tried to interest him in the future – their future - but it had not worked. She had given up on him, as he had always suspected everyone would in the end – freak, had said Uncle Vernon, nobody wants you – and six months after their breakup, Ginny had married Zacharias Smith. Mrs. Weasley no longer mothered him. There was a soft touch of sadness in Mr. Weasley's eyes whenever he spoke to Harry.  
Hermione was in Australia with her parents, championing the cause of Squibs. She had written a novel about Minerva, Dumbledore and Grindelwald. It had brought in proceeds enough for her to live comfortably for the rest of the life while championing any cause she cared to.  
Ron was Secretary to the Ministry's ambassador to Australia. The war had worn down Ron's immaturity and Hermione's insecurities. It had brought them closer. When Harry had visited them, Ron, who had looked every inch as patient as Arthur, had mentioned that they were considering settling in Australia.  
Only Harry remained with an unquenched fire in his belly, forever on wild goose chases, as he tried to make sense of the past. Then again, he often wondered if it was possible to stop at all. He had been Marked, and in a sense, he still remained Marked.

"This is the last time," Harry told Ginny.

She rolled her eyes and said, "You have been saying that for years, Harry. Do as you wish. You are too stubborn to listen to others. I must be leaving now. Zacharias is returning from his trip. "

Zacharias Smith worked as a Floo Inspector. Occasionally, he was sent on trips to the farther reaches of Britain to service the Ministry-installed Floos at institutions like libraries and hospitals. He was still as pompous a prat as he had been in Harry's fifth year. Harry wondered what Ginny saw in him. Hermione said Ginny had probably wanted someone who was as unlike Harry as was possible.

When Ginny began her rant on what she saw as Harry's pigheadedness, he decided that he had had enough of family for the day. He kissed Ginny's cheek, hugged Molly and left the place.

* * *

Malfoy Manor. The large iron gates, the long drive through an arborage of cherry trees which gave way to perfectly maintained gardens where peacocks strutted - that had been Harry's impression of the place. He was startled to find the once beautiful gardens overwhelmed by weeds. There were no wards at all and there was not a single peacock strutting about. Frowning, Harry made his way to the doors and knocked.

He stood there a long time, wand poised in hand. He was not afraid. He no longer feared anything, as clichéd as that sounded. Perhaps that was why he was unable to find life fulfilling.

Eventually, concerned by the derelict state of his surround and the lack of answer, he decided that it was time to leave. Later, he could contact Draco Malfoy and alert him to the situation. He had begun walking back to the gates when he heard the creaking of the doors. He turned swiftly, wand raised, only to see a sleepy Lucius Malfoy, a steaming cup of tea in hand, and staring at Harry in befuddlement. Where were the House Elves that used to wait hand and foot on their master?

"Mr. Malfoy."

"Potter!" Lucius exclaimed, recognition finally flitting across his features. The sleepiness faded away, he cleared his throat and said uneasily, "I thought it might be one of the Unspeakables. They come on Monday mornings."

Was that a stammer? Harry stared at the man in shock.

"Come in, come in!"

Harry was even more suspicious. A polite Lucius meant a scheming Lucius, didn't it?

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"Not on the doorstep," Lucius interrupted. "Why don't you come in and tell me what this is about?"

Before Harry could get another word in, Lucius had firmly chivvied him inside, led him down a long foyer into a well-appointed saloon that certainly had seen better days. The air of derelict in the chamber drew Harry's attention to a vase of fresh bluebells on the writing desk. It was the only alive thing of today and everything else, including Harry's host, seemed to be remnants of an age long gone.

"Lacks a woman's touch, doesn't it?" Lucius asked. "Severus would have so hated to see the place now."

Harry was relieved by this digression. It spared him the pain of making small talk. Taking a deep breath, he plunged ahead and said, "I wish to know more about Professor Snape's motivations."

Lucius frowned and stared at him. Then he remarked, "It took you his death to start calling him by his title, I see."

Harry wanted to remind the man that Lucius had called Dumbledore far cruder epithets than any Harry had used to refer to Snape. But Harry needed answers and Lucius was the last man alive who might know those.

"Well, regardless of all that, I wish to thank you for honouring his burial wishes," Lucius said abruptly, fidgeting in his armchair and keeping his eyes on the low fire in his hearth. "It meant much to him, and it means something to me."

Guilt, ever present, flared higher in Harry's heart as he rued his relationship with Snape when the man had been alive. Harry got along with the portrait, but that did not count, did it? So engrossed had he been in his prejudice. Now, years after the man's death, Harry wanted to know everything about him. Had he fucked anyone? Harry's year-mates had always held that Snape was too repulsive to attract a woman. Harry thought differently now. Then again, Harry held unusual opinions on almost everything these days.

He wondered if leaving Hogwarts had helped change his world view. Harry had been an orphan and Dudley's punchbag long before he had heard of Gryffindor. And he had been so hungry to belong when he had been Sorted. He found it sad that his life had been moulded by loyalty to a school house. He had seen enough cases where house loyalty had persevered over everything else, and it had won them a war, but Harry now wondered if it had not been the cause in the first place.

Would Snape have gotten along with Sirius if there had been no Houses, or if Snape had been Sorted into Gryffindor? Would they both be alive?

Lucius cleared his throat. Harry returned his attention to his host.

"What brings you here, Potter? I cannot regale you with tales of Severus's bravery. Dumbledore's portrait might be able to."

"What was he like?" Harry asked. "When did you meet him first? Was it at Hogwarts?"

"I am not sure I can tell you what you need to hear, Potter. He was my father's protege," Lucius said quietly, his eyes wandering to the vase of bluebells. "My father, you see, took in broken, ugly, abused things. He thought he could put them back together."

Harry was reminded of Albus Dumbledore. He knew nothing about Lucius's father. He had heard Molly Weasley speak of how Abraxas Malfoy had been inseparable from his cane at all the social occasions he had attended.

Lucius bent forward and locked his gaze with Harry's. Then he said, "My father made a mistake. And Severus was how he set it right eventually. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Potter? Severus had two parental figures in his life. And both of them had an equal hand in sending him to his death. I think his own father might have been kinder, you know. I killed the abusive bastard because I thought it would give Severus a better life. I was wrong."

Harry sat up in horror, trying to process the information. He was not taken aback by Lucius's confession of murder. He knew what the man was capable of. He was shocked that Lucius, clever, crafty Lucius, would admit to it so openly to him.

"What was your father's mistake?" Harry asked.

He had a horrible hunch and he dearly did not want it to be right. He remembered Snape's comment about burying the mad monster alongside him in a field of bluebells.

Lucius sighed and said softly, "What was Dumbledore's mistake, Potter? Severus had two parental figures. One of them made a monster out of a sociopath. The other loved that monster enough to deliver his protégé right on a platter as the next suitor after he died. Severus was a passionate, loyal man. His love was deep. Little wonder that it killed him."

Harry noticed absently that his nails were digging into the leather upholstery of the chair arms and leaving half-moon marks. He had forgotten to trim his nails. He made a note to do so as soon as he reached home.

"Potter?"

"Why do you tell me this?"

Lucius shrugged.

"Why?"

Lucius looked uncertain and that worried Harry. He drew in a deep breath and said, seeming as if he had picked his words with care, "I am not long for this world, Potter. Only I know the story. And of those who remain, only you deserve to know it."

Something in Harry died then. He had, in his naiver moments, hoped, dearly hoped, that he would one day put behind all of this and start living. Lucius's words killed that hope. Of those who remained, only he would carry this burden.

"And Minerva McGonagall too," Lucius added thoughtfully.

Harry pitied her more than he pitied himself, and in his cups he pitied himself quite a lot. So that was saying something.

"What was it like?" Harry asked, morbid curiosity now spurring him on.

He was unsure if he wanted to know. Had there been sadomasochistic practices? Had there been blood and curses? Had the Professor been given over to Bellatrix or someone equally cruel if Voldemort had been displeased? Harry still had nightmares of Hermione's screams in this very Manor when Bellatrix had made sport.

Lucius looked uncomfortable. Perhaps it had been unspeakably bad. Perhaps that was why Lucius had been angry with his father for delivering Snape on a platter to Voldemort. Perhaps that had been why Snape had looked so terrified when he proposed to return to spying. Harry wondered if Snape's unloved upbringing had made him hunger for the only kind of attachment he thought he deserved.

Harry's thoughts were perhaps evident on his features, for Lucius said hastily, "It was not the stuff of nightmares. I mean-" he waved his hand helplessly, "It was hard on him, but only because he was treated well."

"What?" Harry asked, befuddled.

"See, the monster was nothing less than a monster. But neither my father nor Severus had been treated badly by him before 1981. Severus might have been less insulated by the attachment during the second war. I suspect that might have been due to the monster forgetting most of its past."

Harry still loved Ginny, though not as ardently , never as ardently, as she once had loved him. He did not seem to have it in him. Still, he wondered what it might be like, he had taken a lover, and if she had died and returned with no memory of their past. He wondered what it might have been like to betray a lover. What had it been like for Albus Dumbledore and Grindelwald? What had it been like for Snape?

"The Prophet says that you carry a torch for a dead man," Lucius said quietly. "I wonder if that is true."

"Does it matter?" Harry asked wryly.

He had heard the rumours himself. He had not read them in the Prophet. He stayed away from the newspaper on principle. Minerva called him obsessed and there had been sympathy in her eyes. It had been the sympathy of a fellow addict. He was to return to the Castle, as Charms Professor. Then Minerva and he would be two totems left over from a time everyone tried to forget.

"Have you told his portrait?" Lucius asked then.

Harry laughed at that. Snape was noble and brave, but not as noble as all that to not rub it in his face. A mean streak had run through the man and it had carried over into the portrait too. There would be a comparison drawn to Lily and her spurned suitor, and to the man Harry had killed to free them all.

"He might surprise you, Potter."

* * *

Lucius was not the most sage of counsel.

Yet, Harry found himself walking up the Great Hall, past a gargoyle that knew him well enough to not ask for a password, up the staircase he had climbed upon many an occasion, and into a chamber that he had once sought to destroy in grief and rage upon hearing tidings of his Godfather's death.

"You are back."

Snape's portrait did not sound happy. It did not sound particularly unhappy. Harry decided that it merely sounded like Snape.

"I am back." he said.

"Did you visit Draco then? Did you find answers enough? Will you now return to living, Harry?"

"I want to tell you something," Harry told the portrait. He was not sure how to go about couching the essence of what he wished to tell Snape. It would not do anyone good. The man was dead. Harry was fairly sure that he had lost most of his sanity long ago.

He had come this far, though.

"Minerva showed me many of the sketches you had drawn," he said quietly. "That is not what I wanted to speak of. I spoke to your crony, Malfoy. He told me a story I am not sure I know to make sense of. I am not sure if I wish to make sense of it."

The portrait Snape seemed uneasy. Harry wondered why. Did it matter to Snape if Harry knew? Did it matter if Harry judged? Why would it matter? Snape was dead.

"For Abraxas, he was Prometheus," Snape said quietly then, not meeting Harry's gaze. Harry felt sad that it had to be this way. Snape's life had been brave enough to never, never warrant shrinking away from anyone's gaze.

"And to you?"

"To me, he had been Harold."

"What?" Harry asked, shocked upon hearing his name.

Snape laughed self-consciously. Then he said. "No offence, Harry. I hadn't known that was to be your name then. I had only known him as Childe Harold of Byron's poetry. The irony did make me smile later though, during times when I was unable to muster enough tears to weep for it."

"Muggle poetry?" Harry asked weakly.

He had not taken Snape to be a lover of literature. He had also not ever in his wildest imagination thought of anyone drawing such a parallel. It sickened him, he found. It also made him curious. This, this was his nature, he had realised long ago. He was curious enough to offset his disgust at often what answers his curiosity reaped.

"I was a curious man, Harry. You remind me of myself, with your curiosity and obsessive nature. I did not know when to let sleeping dogs lie. I was obsessed with Voldemort. Obsession moved to fascination. Fascination became attachment. Attachment became affection. He had been slipping into insanity, but he had sanity enough then to treat me kindly, as kindly as anyone ever had, strange as it sounds. It had been a very short period, between when I spoke to him first of this and when he died in Godric's Hollow, and when he returned, he returned a monster."

Harry stood still. There was no Fawkes to break awkward silences with flashy displays of death and rebirth. There was no Dumbledore to offer lemon-drops. There was just him and he felt more vulnerable than he ever had when facing Voldemort.

Voldemort.

"You must think me a raving fool," the man in the portrait said.

"No," Harry replied. "You will think I am a raving fool if I told you what is on my mind."

"You don't need to, Harry," Snape's portrait replied. "You don't need to."

"No remarks about my mother and how she treated you?"

"I am not her. I am not going to be her when you speak to me of something rare and beautiful. I might have, before I had known what it meant to be treated kindly in love. I know differently now."

Lucius had been right. Snape had surprised Harry. Outside, on the Quidditch pitch, Harry could see players practising. A little golden ball with wings fluttered about. The Seeker had not caught notice of it. But Harry had.

"You did always have a sharp eye," the portrait remarked, as Harry's gaze followed the golden ball.

"You did always know where I looked," Harry said, smiling as he returned his gaze to the portrait.

"Now you look at me."

"Yes."

Now Harry knew. Now he knew what it had all come down to. He smiled again and walked closer to the portrait. The man in the portrait looked uneasy and worried. Close to, for the first time, Harry noticed that there was a vase of bluebells painted into the portrait. Had Snape asked for it? Had it appeared on its own as the portraits of Headmasters did? It did not matter. Now, though, now it was time to speak.

"Now I look at you," Harry told the portrait firmly. "And it is all right."

* * *

_notes: The reference is to Childe Harold's pilgrimage, by Lord Byron. As always, I'd love to hear what you think. _


End file.
